


Completamente Y Para Siempre

by iwillgodownwiththisship84



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fedal wedding, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 09:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillgodownwiththisship84/pseuds/iwillgodownwiththisship84
Summary: “One day I have to come back to Prague, with Rafa maybe, and his family and my family...”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody guys! I know it’s been a while since I last posted but I’ve been working on this on and off for over a year and what better time to share it then as we’re eagerly/not so eagerly awaiting another bittersweet meeting of our two boys!
> 
> P.S. I started writing this before Rafa and Mery announced their engagement (massive congrats to them both) - I toyed with the idea of adding it in but eventually decided against it.
> 
> As always reviews are much appreciated...

The duplex suite boasted an upper floor observatory window offering amazing views of Saint Nicolas Church, Charles Bridge and the rooftops of Prague.

Roger Federer stood in silence taking in the panoramic scene, fondly remembering his first visit to the city nearly two years ago. Hearing footsteps, he turned and saw Mirka coming up the stairs.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re looking pensive.”

Roger smiled. “Just memories. Where are the kids?”

“With your parents. They’re really excited about tomorrow.”

His grin grew wider. “Me too.” He moved closer and took Mirka’s hands in his. “Thank you for being here for this.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I’d be here. You’re still my best friend. You’re still the man I fell in love with, the man I chose to marry and raise children with. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and anyone with eyes can see that you are.”

Never let it be said that his ex-wife wasn’t a remarkable woman - after all she’d spent nearly twenty years by his side, accompanying him all over the world to support him in fulfilling his dream of tennis glory. And Roger had repaid her loyalty by falling in love with someone else.

He’d never wanted or intended to hurt her and never thought he’d be the kind of man who would forsake his wedding vows. From the moment he’d met Mirka when they were both competing at the Olympics in Sydney, he hadn’t looked twice at another woman. It had never occurred to him that he might develop feelings for another man, especially one who’d been his rival for over a decade.

Tennis fans had always been fascinated with the relationship between Roger and Rafael Nadal - from the early days when the Spaniard had first risen up to challenge Roger’s prevailing dominance of the game to the years of vying for titles and the coveted No. 1 ranking, and especially their unlikely friendship off the court.

Going back fifteen years to their iconic first on-court meeting in the third round of the Miami Open, Roger couldn’t have guessed the impact that Rafa would have on his career. There had been some tough times, particularly the multiple consecutive losses to him at Roland Garros, but his respect for the other man ran deep and he’d always had a great admiration for him as a fellow athlete. Their rivalry had also forced Roger to work on his own game, ultimately making him a better player.

The evolution of their relationship from friends to lovers had been gradual, a slow burn over many years. In the beginning, Rafa had seemed to be just another young player trying to carve out a professional career, and doubtless in awe of the current World No.1. But on the court, he’d transformed from a shy, reserved kid into a fighter, like a modern-day gladiator, determined to prove his worth.

He’d fought and clawed his way to the No. 2 spot, but he was such a genuinely lovely guy and a true sportsman, that Roger just hadn’t been able to dislike him. Even when Rafa had begun regularly winning their matches.

It was difficult and sometimes downright impossible to maintain lasting friendships with other players on the tour - Roger had Marco and Stan, his fellow countrymen and Davis Cup teammates, as well as Tommy, who’d he’d known for years, while Rafa tended to hang out during tournaments with the other Spanish players, finding it easier to communicate in his native tongue. But as his popularity had risen and their rivalry had become something of a hallmark of the sport, their sponsors, especially Nike, had been eager to capitalise on it, arranging numerous photo-calls and other promotional events, and he and Rafa had naturally grown closer.

The first turning point had been during the Battle of Surfaces exho in 2007 - even now, years later, it still made Roger smile whenever Rafa mispronounced ‘surfaces’. It had been his first visit to the Spaniard’s home island of Mallorca and after an epic and unique match, Roger and his team had been invited to join Rafa’s family and team for dinner.

The food, wine and conversation had flowed freely, even with several different languages being spoken. Rafa had also seemed different, loose and relaxed, the smile never leaving his face, and Roger had found his mood infectious. Mirka had ended up leaving early to return to the hotel, citing a headache, with the others gradually following until only Roger and Rafa remained.

It had been Rafa who’d suggested that they take the ‘scenic route’ across the beach to get back to the hotel, the pair of them giggling like a couple of schoolboys and bumping into each other in their half-inebriated state, until Rafa had suddenly lost his footing in the sand and Roger had grabbed hold of him to keep him upright.

His grin had wavered slightly at the suddenly unreadable expression on Rafa’s face and as he’d opened his mouth to speak, he’d felt the Spaniard’s soft, warm lips press against his own. It had only lasted a matter of seconds before Rafa had pulled back, looking mortified, and bolted. Startled by the turn of events, it had taken Roger a moment to comprehend what had just happened, by which time Rafa had already disappeared from sight.

He’d managed to find his way back to the hotel and when he’d later slipped between the cool bedsheets next to his girlfriend, Roger had found himself replaying the moment in his head in an effort to make sense of it, like maybe he’d been giving him unintentional signals. Then Mirka had stirred and curled into him, her mouth seeking his and her familiar kiss feeling a tiny bit strange after the shock of Rafa’s.

After a restless night, he’d risen early and headed down to the hotel gym, correctly guessing that Rafa would be there. It had been an incredibly awkward exchange with the Spaniard blushing and looking down at the floor as he’d stumbled through a flustered apology in his faltering English. Roger had been content to accept his excuse of having had too much wine to drink, wanting to clear the air and forget about it, and not wanting anything to get in the way of when they inevitably next faced each other on court.

It hadn’t taken long for them get past what had happened and for their friendship to get back to normal, and within a year there were rumours circulating about Rafa’s love life, winding up with a string of pictures gracing the front cover of one of Mirka’s favourite magazines - pictures of Rafa on the beach, looking cosy with a stunningly beautiful brunette, who’d later been named as María Francisca Perelló, his childhood sweetheart. And only a few months later, Roger’s own relationship had gone full steam ahead with the discovery of Mirka’s pregnancy and their subsequent engagement.

He’d had a hellish year professionally, with back-to-back losses to Rafa in Paris and at Wimbledon, and then the relinquishing of his No. 1 ranking to the Spaniard after four and a half years at the top. He’d managed to defend his title in New York only to suffer another crushing defeat by Rafa in Melbourne. He hadn’t been able to hold back the tears during the trophy ceremony and when Rafa had flung an arm around his neck and pressed his forehead against his, seeking to both comfort him and bolster his flagging confidence, he’d felt such a strong rush of affection for this man who could be both his rival and his friend.

And a few months later, when Roger had finally managed to lift the _Coupe_ _des_ _Mousquetaires_ at Roland Garros, and complete his Career Grand Slam, Rafa had been one of the first to call him up and congratulate him, the obvious warmth and sincerity in his voice reminding him that the relationship between them was something pretty rare indeed. Over the next couple of years, they’d had fewer on-court meetings, but their rapport hadn’t changed - Rafa of course being the obvious choice of opponent when Roger had been arranging his first Match for Africa charity event for his foundation.

In preparation for the match, they’d put together a promo video which had descended into epic hilarity, with both of them repeatedly losing it and dissolving into uncontrollable laughter. It had been a truly priceless moment that would always rank high on his list of memories he shared with Rafa.

By then what had happened in Mallorca had been a distant memory - Roger had been married and the proud father of identical twin daughters, and Rafa had seemed happy with María or ‘Mery’ as he called her; the two couples had even gone out for dinner together during the tournament in Madrid.

When Rafa had flown into Zurich on the day of the match, Roger had come to the airport to meet him and take him for lunch en route to the stadium. He’d later won the match and afterwards they’d both headed for the locker room to shower, Rafa immediately peeling off his sweat-damp t-shirt. It wasn’t until he’d turned around to retrieve his wash-bag that Roger had noticed a visible tenting in the fabric of the Spaniard’s shorts.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, he’d witnessed it occasionally with other players - something to do with the surge of natural chemicals and hormones caused by high-intensity exercise. He’d hastily averted his eyes as Rafa pushed down his shorts and underwear and wrapped a towel around his waist, and quickly stripped off his own kit before following him in the direction of the showers.

While his aching body had loosened up under the warm water, he’d been unable to disengage his mind and had found himself unexpectedly wondering whether Rafa was relieving himself of a rather different kind of ‘ache’ beneath the spray, being equal parts shocked and disconcerted to find his own cock hardening at the thought. He’d barely been aware of his right hand reaching down until he was suddenly thrusting into his callused palm, biting back a groan at the wet friction as he’d pictured Rafa doing the same and coming in a matter of minutes, his seed washing down the drain and leaving him feeling both awkward and confused.

He’d already made plans to have dinner with his parents, only to discover that his father had invited Rafa to join them. His distraction throughout the meal must have been obvious enough to have his mother showing concern for his well-being and he’d only been thankful that Mirka had had to stay home with the girls who had been unwell for the past week. He’d struggled to wrap his head around the whole thing, wondering what the hell it meant that he’d gotten himself off while thinking about another man - surely as a married father of two approaching thirty, he was past the age of questioning his sexuality?

The following day he and Rafa had flown to Madrid to play a second match for the Spaniard’s foundation - he hadn’t been surprised by his defeat, just relieved to get back on his plane and return to his family in Dubai. The remainder of the off-season had been a reprieve and a chance to spend some quality time with his gorgeous wife and his two beautiful daughters, making it easier for him to convince himself that it had all been nothing but a fleeting and meaningless fantasy.

Until he’d arrived in Melbourne for the start of the new season and been faced with countless billboards bearing sinful images of Rafa wearing jeans that looked painted on and boxer briefs that left little to the imagination, especially for someone who was trying desperately hard not to imagine.

Anyone with eyes would agree that Rafa was attractive, a combination of his Latin heritage and his impressive physique. When he’d started out on the tour, he’d been a mere boy, his youthful face at odds with his muscular build, but he’d certainly grown into his looks and his body. And there had been plenty of public commentary about his ‘famous arse’ - Roger himself had even jumped on the bandwagon when he’d jokingly wolf-whistled at Rafa as he’d bent over to re-tie his shoelaces during the Hit for Haiti charity match the year before.

Unable to suppress the lust that threatened to consume him whenever he was forced to be around Rafa, it had felt a bit like a blessing in disguise when the pair of them had ended up locking horns over a number of political issues, such as the hectic ATP schedule and the proposal of a two-year ranking system, ultimately leading to Rafa’s resignation as vice-president of the Player’s Council. They’d continued to be drawn to face each other at various tournaments over the following months, but anytime they’d interacted off the court, their once easy camaraderie had been noticeably missing, and gone were the days when there’d be a congratulatory text waiting for him at the end of a title-winning match.

In contrast, his relationship with Mirka had been rejuvenated by the news that she was pregnant again and their picture-perfect fairytale family had been increased by a third when she’d given birth to a second set of identical twins, this time two boys. Focusing his energy on his family had helped him keep his lustful feelings in check, but they had still been there simmering just under the surface.

Thankfully they hadn’t prevented him from defeating Rafa in the final of his home tournament in Basel, their first match in nearly two years and his first victory over the Spaniard in twice that time. It had been a long time coming and he’d begun to hope it might signify a turning of the tide in their head-to-head which had always been heavily balanced in Rafa’s favour. Little had he known that it would be the last title he’d claim for over a year.

The next twelve months had been tough for him to say the least - having made it through eighteen years on the tour in near perfect fitness, he’d been sidelined by successive injuries to his knee and back which had caused him to miss the next four tournaments, and then withdraw from a further two including Roland Garros - his first absence from a Slam in sixteen years. His painful semi-final defeat at Wimbledon where he’d lost his footing and face-planted the grass of Centre Court had only hastened his decision to sit out the rest of the season.

It had been the first time that he’d really thought seriously about retirement. Even during the slump he’d had a few years back, he’d always believed in his ability to turn it around. At a time like this, he’d wished he could have talked to Rafa about it - at the risk of sounding arrogant, no one but Rafa could really understand what retirement would mean to a player with his legacy, still holding on to the record for most Major wins, although the Spaniard was only three behind him and Novak was nipping at both their heels.

When he’d heard that Rafa would finally be opening his training academy in Mallorca later that year, he’d felt weirdly proud of his old friend and genuinely pleased that he’d managed to fulfil his long-held dream, prompting him to bite the bullet and call Rafa up to offer his support for the launch ceremony.

And it had been just like old times, as though the past few years of friction had never even happened, and he’d felt his heart pound and his stomach flip when Rafa had presented him with a collage of special moments from their many years together on the tour with a heartfelt message foretelling many more moments to come. It hadn’t escaped Roger’s notice that he’d not been back to Mallorca since that night that Rafa had kissed him on the beach nearly a decade ago - a decade that felt almost like a lifetime. Perhaps it was telling that he’d been quick to agree with Mirka’s decision not to accompany and to stay in Switzerland with the children instead.

After the launch he’d been invited back to Rafa’s house to join the whole Nadal clan for a celebratory dinner. And just like before, the revelry had continued late into the night until only he and Rafa had been left, sitting out on the terrace, talking freely as they’d finished their beers. Looking back it had been inevitable, fated even - Roger’s eyes fixed on Rafa, basking in his beautiful smile. And it was as though he’d been driven back in time to that pivotal moment, all those years ago, albeit with their positions reversed, and nothing could have stopped him from taking what he’d been secretly craving for so long.

It had been mind-blowing, not coming close to even his most explicit fantasies - from the moment he’d pressed his mouth against Rafa’s to them clawing at each other’s clothing, from finally having that gorgeous body beneath him in the Spaniard’s bed to sliding his cock deep inside his gloriously tight arse. It was hardly surprising that he’d come so hard he’d almost passed out.

Waking up the following morning with the sights, sounds and scents of the night still fresh in his mind, the guilt he’d felt over betraying his wife and family had been overwhelming - skipping out while Rafa was still asleep had been a shitty thing to do but he hadn’t been ready for the questions that he would have undoubtedly had to answer.

Being away from the tour had made it easier to avoid Rafa and what they’d done, but January had quickly rolled around and he’d kicked off his return to the court firstly at the Hopman Cup exho and then in Melbourne, where he’d systematically decimated his opponents and ended up playing Rafa in the final. It had been a tough five-setter with Roger eventually clinching the victory, leading to a decidedly awkward embrace at the net. During the ensuing trophy presentation, Roger had been unable to hold back his gushing praise for Rafa or stop himself from looking back at him over his shoulder - his insistence that tennis needed him masking what he’d really wanted to say.

 ** _I_** _need_ _you_.

Later when they’d found themselves alone together in the locker room, words had been unnecessary, their mouths and hands communicating perfectly and their mutual desperation driving them into the shower where they’d likely have ended up fucking again, had they not been interrupted by _Tío_  Toni.

The following months had been tough - Rafa having made the difficult decision to end his relationship with Mery soon after Melbourne, while Roger had been torn between needing to be with Rafa and not wanting to break up his family. And skipping the entire clay court season that year had been as much about resting his body and spending time with his family as about confessing everything to Mirka.

It had been awful - her anger and her tears were one thing, but her resignation had been the worst, like she’d somehow been expecting his confession, making him question if perhaps he’d not been as adept at hiding his growing feelings for Rafa as he’d thought. And after the dust had settled, her agreement to keep up appearances for the sake of the children and his career and to continue travelling with him on the tour as his manager had been a testament to both her grace and her astute business sense.

The highlight of the year - aside from winning his record-breaking eighth Wimbledon title - had been the inaugural Laver Cup, where he’d had the opportunity to team up with his lover/rival to play doubles for the first time. He’d spent the whole week in something of a bubble, almost oblivious to the scrutiny of the outside world, and blithely aware that he was falling in love with Rafa. He knew he’d probably been a bit over familiar, touching him more than was perhaps necessary, not to mention his slip-up during a presser when he’d accidentally called him ‘baby’, but it had been Rafa jumping into his arms in celebration of Team Europe’s victory that had really sent their Twitter followers into a #Fedal frenzy.

After such an incredible season, the following year had had its share of disappointments - although they’d successfully defended their respective titles in Australia and Paris and spent several months playing metaphorical ping-pong with the No. 1 ranking, injuries both new and recurrent as well as Novak’s resurgence had contributed to their subsequent lack of success in the remaining two Slams. And with Roger skipping the clay season for a second year running, they’d barely played any of same tournaments and had had to settle for trying to steal time together here and there, whenever their time off had coincided.

As necessary as the secrecy had been, it had at times been the cause of tension between them - especially with Roger continuing to play the devoted husband in the public eye - so when their secret had been discovered, there had been a small sense of relief.

It had happened during the tournament in Miami - fitting perhaps given how the event was linked to their shared history - and was the result of recklessness that Roger could only attribute to cabin fever carried over from the previous fortnight spent in Indian Wells. Whenever they’d not been practicing or playing, they’d been holed up in Roger‘s rented house slowly going stir-crazy, and Roger had only been able to take a grumpy Rafa for so long before he’d made arrangements for them to charter a boat and go sailing for the day.

The photos had been of surprisingly good quality given how far they’d been from any other vessels, and suitably damning - Rafa sitting astride him, their mouths clinging, and Roger’s hand shoved down the back of the Spaniard’s pink swim shorts.

It wouldn’t have been difficult to imagine the scale of the media frenzy, with seemingly every publication on the planet getting in on the action, pulling out all kinds of innocent photos from years gone by and speculating over how long their ‘torrid love affair’ had been going on.

Even with Roger’s slimmed-down playing schedule, he’d already committed to playing both Madrid and Rome in his much-anticipated return to clay, while Rafa typically used the season to accumulate as many ranking points as possible, so holding a joint press conference had seemed to be the only way to put paid to the speculation and scrutiny.

It had given them something of a reprieve and allowed them both to experience the reality of a relationship no longer hindered by secrecy. Knowing without a doubt that he wanted a future with Rafa, Roger had been motivated to finally address the subject of divorce with Mirka, and in the week before the tournament was due to begin in Paris, he’d whisked his lover away to a villa in the heart of the Tuscan countryside.

And on a warm evening as they’d curled up together on the terrace watching the sun drop below the horizon, he’d asked Rafa to marry him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We’ll walk around and we’ll go to all the bars and playgrounds with our kids in the future, and we’ll have a good time one day here in Prague again...”
> 
> **Just for context, my brother got married at the Alchymist Hotel in Prague in September last year so some of this is based on my experience of their wedding...

Roger’s phone buzzed against his thigh, drawing him out of his reminiscing.

Retrieving it from his pocket, he smiled as always at his screensaver - a picture of Rafa in full dimpled grin mode - before reading the message.

“Rafa?” Mirka asked.

“He’s just arrived. I’d better go and give them a hand with the luggage.”

Mirka’s knowing chuckle rang in his ears as he hurried down the stairs and out of the suite, heading for the lift that would take him down to the hotel lobby.

His stomach flipped with excitement, which was absurd really when it had been less than a week since they’d last seen each other - after Wimbledon, Rafa had returned with himto Switzerland for the party he and Mirka had organised for their daughters’ tenth birthday, after which he’d flown home to Mallorca for a few days, at the request of his childhood friends, Toméu and Miguel Ángel, who’d insisted on throwing him a bachelor party.

Reaching the lobby, he quickly spotted Rafa’s mother and sister, his soon-to-be in-laws, greeting both women with a smile and a kiss on each cheek. A few moments later, his fiancé appeared, his face lighting up when he saw Roger.

Their embrace was a little more restrained than usual in view of the company, with Roger pressing a chaste kiss to Rafa’s lips and then pulling him into his arms, although his whispered “ _Hola_ _guapo_ ” had apparently been loud enough for Maribel’s ears if her giggle was any indication.

They were soon joined by Rafa’s father and Toni, the latter being his usual gruff self in spite of the upcoming happy occasion, and Roger led them all to the lift so they could find their assigned rooms.

It might have seemed strange that they were not having the wedding in Mallorca - Roger would have gladly agreed to it, knowing how important the island was to Rafa, but it had been the Spaniard who’d suggested choosing somewhere that meant something to both of them and Roger’s mind had immediately turned to Prague. The week they’d spent here for the first Laver Cup tournament two years ago had been amazing, both from a tennis point of view and also for the two of them, playing on the same team, cheering each other on and celebrating each other’s victories in a way they’d never before been able to.

Their chosen venue, The Alchymist, was a luxury boutique hotel located in the city’s Old Town, just a short distance from Charles Bridge. It would be a small affair with only fifty guests, made up of family members, their teams and a handful of close friends.

After managing to steal Rafa away from his family and finding his room, Roger couldn’t mask his eagerness to get the Spaniard alone, crowding him with intent as he worked to unlock the carved oak door and pressing his half-hard cock against Rafa’s denim-clad arse. But his hopes were swiftly dashed by the pitter-patter of five-year old feet which suddenly rounded the corner.

“Rafa!”

Roger barely had enough time to step back before his fiancé was nearly flattened by two blond-haired rascals. He rolled his eyes at Mirka who appeared after them, jokingly lamenting having been replaced as his sons’ hero.

Lacking in experience as to the boys’ ability to twist anyone around their little fingers, Rafa was quickly talked into taking them to the playground, where they all, including Mirka and the girls, then spent the rest of the afternoon, before returning to the hotel so the adults could get changed for dinner with their families.

They’d booked a private dining room in an upscale but cosy Italian restaurant just across the bridge. There were fourteen of them altogether, including Mirka, the children staying behind with the nanny they’d brought with them. It was the first time he’d seen many of Rafa’s kin since the academy opening - Toni was joined by his wife, Joana, and there was also Rafa’s other uncles, Miguel Ángel and Juan, and his aunt, Marilen. Roger’s family was much smaller in comparison - just his parents and his sister, Diana.

It was a lovely evening, the food was good and their two families seemed to get on well in spite of any language barriers. When they eventually returned to the hotel, Roger walked Rafa to his room, only to be barred from entering.

“No...is bad luck,” Rafa insisted. “You wait until tomorrow.”

Roger rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Do I at least get a goodnight kiss?”

“Is not midnight yet...” the Spaniard responded with a shrug. “I guess is okay.”

Roger chuckled lightly, seeing right through him, and leaned forward, watching Rafa’s eyes slide shut as their mouths came together, once, twice, and then clung. Their breath mingled as their tongues engaged in a familiar exchange, their hands landing wherever they could find purchase, until Roger abruptly pulled back, causing Rafa to stumble forward as his mouth automatically tried to follow. He pressed a hand to the Spaniard’s chest to steady him.

“ _Mañana_ , baby, yeah?”

Rafa’s nodded mutely, his pupils dilated with desire.

“Now get inside before you turn into a pumpkin...”

*********

Roger awoke the next morning to two giggling girls jumping on his bed.

“Papa...Papa...it’s here...it’s your wedding day...”

He yawned and pulled himself up, dragging them both into his arms and pressing kisses to each of their heads in turn.

It was a strange situation for any child to adapt to, the separation of their parents and the remarriage of one of them, without the added confusion of their father marrying another man. And yet all four of the children had accepted the concept of Rafa becoming part of their family with barely blinking an eye, which he believed was in part due to his and Mirka’s determination not to shield them from the realities of the world.

With the three of them now awake, he called room service to order breakfast and they were finishing up when Mirka arrived with the boys. The children would not be involved in the ceremony but were still eager to get dressed up for the occasion, Leo and Lenny in little suits and Charlene and Myla in fairy princess dresses.

While in London, he and Rafa had made use of their free time before and during the tournament to get fitted for bespoke wedding outfits on Savile Row. Roger enjoyed shopping for clothes and Rafa had definitely become more fashion-aware in recent years - and there was something about seeing him in a tailored suit that was an incredible turn-on. They’d both chosen charcoal for the colour, more formal versions of the suits they’d worn to the Laver Cup welcome ceremony in Old Town Square, with white Italian cotton dress shirts. They’d picked their ties separately, Roger opting for black with silver pinstripes.

The ceremony was scheduled for noon in the hotel’s Mirror Gallery, an intimate gothic hall decorated with paintings and Venetian mirrors and by eleven thirty, they were all ready to head downstairs where they found his parents waiting with Diana and her own twins, his niece and nephew. A slight nod to tradition, he and Rafa would be escorted by their mothers, with the layout of the room allowing them to enter at the same time from separate entrances.

As the appointed time approached, he heard the music start up, the soft strains of the well-known _Concierto_ _de_ _Aranjuez_ filtering through to the antechamber where he was waiting. Taking his mother’s arm, he entered the hall, his eyes immediately finding Rafa and Ana on the opposite side of the room. Rafa’s blushing smile testified of his nerves, and when they both reached the front, Roger took his hand, squeezing it and noting with amusement that they’d chosen ties with the same pattern, though Rafa’s was in two different shades of blue.

The official part of the ceremony was conducted in both English and Spanish, those being the prevalent languages among the guests, and then it was time for their own personal vows, which they’d written together. Butterflies were suddenly awoken in Roger’s stomach as he realised this was the moment he’d spent hours preparing for. Facing Rafa and holding both his hands, he took a deep breath.

“Rafa... _aquí_ _hoy_... _rodeado_ _por_ _nuestra_ _familia_ _y_ _amigos_...”

He watched Rafa’s eyes widen as realisation dawned.

“ _Te_ _elijo_ _a_ _ti_ , _para_ _ser_ _mi_ _esposo_. _Lo_ _prometo_ _apoyarte_ , _animarte_ , _inspirarte_ y _nunca_ _dejar_ _de_ _amarte_...”

Rafa was blinking rapidly and his eyes were glittering with tears. A lump formed in Roger’s throat and he coughed softly to clear it.

“ _En_ _tiempos_ _buenos_ _y_ _en_ _tiempos_ _malos_... _completamente_ _y_ _para_ _siempre_.”

Pressing his hand to his chest as he finished, he released a long breath and lifted his eyebrows, his mouth curving in a bashful grin. Rafa drew Roger’s left hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips against the gold wedding band he’d recently placed on the fourth finger, and mouthed “ _Te_ _amo_ ”, before delivering the same vows in English.

“Roger, we here today, and surrounded by the family and the friends of us, I choose you, to be mine _esposo_...my husband.”

The emotion was audible in his voice and Roger held his gaze, rubbing his thumb gently over his knuckles.

“I am promise to supporting you, encouraging you, inspiring you, and never to stop loving you...in times good and bad...”

Their mirroring smiles could not be contained as Rafa completed his pledge.

“...completely and for always.”

The officiant wrapped up the proceedings before giving them leave to seal it with a kiss and Roger managed to restrain himself with just a brief brush of their lips before they turned to greet their guests.

Ivan, Seve and Charly were there with their wives, Aida, Claudia and Carolina, and then there was Tony and Mary Jo, Pierre, Danny, Carlos and Itziar, Benito, Jordi and obviously Rafael ‘Titín’ Maymó. One of Roger’s oldest friends, Marco was also there with his girlfriend, Ivana, as well as Rafa’s two _amigos_ from Mallorca and their partners.

The whole party relocated to the summer terrace on the first floor where there were canapés and a champagne glass tower and informal photographs could be taken. Lunch was served back downstairs in the Mirror Gallery at two - a four-course menu that he and Rafa had chosen, hence the lobster and prawn appetizer and baked sea bass entrée, although there were of course alternative options for guests who weren’t as obsessed with seafood as his new husband.

Before the dessert course, they each gave a speech, thanking their families and friends for joining them and sharing a few amusing anecdotes about their relationship. Like the time that Rafa had had a really early practice scheduled and turned up to the courts having accidentally put one of Roger’s t-shirts on under his hoodie - one that had a huge, red ‘RF’ emblazoned on the front. Or when Roger got epically drunk on Rafa’s grandmother’s homemade sangria during a visit to Mallorca and became obsessed with demonstrating his knowledge of the _Macarena_ dance routine.

After the meal they all moved out to the inner courtyard for an outdoor evening reception where they were joined by some additional guests - Stan and Donna, Tommy and Sara, David and Marta, Feli and Sandra, and Marc. Refreshments were later served including a live grill and - at Roger’s insistence - a chocolate fountain, with the background accompaniment of music from some of their favourite artists. It was a warm July night and as the daylight faded and the celebrations continued into the night, he and Rafa managed to slip away.

The hotel’s eponymous ‘Alchymist Suite’ had been designed with newlyweds in mind, featuring a hand-carved oak four-poster bed, an Italian balcony, and a huge marble bathroom with a free-standing clawfoot bathtub and separate double shower. The hotel had also arranged for a bottle of champagne to be waiting for them.

While Roger did the honours, popping the cork and pouring them each a glass, Rafa removed his jacket and tie and undid the collar of his shirt, revealing a triangle of golden skin that made Roger eager to uncover the rest of him. He followed suit until he was in a similar state of dress and then handed Rafa one of the glasses, watching him take a sip and chuckling at the adorable way he scrunched up his nose from the fizz.

He stepped closer, crowding into Rafa’s space and bringing a thumb up to capture a stray droplet resting on his bottom lip and then sucking it into his mouth. He then pressed the same digit to the first of the still-fastened buttons on his shirt.

“You want to check out that tub?”

Rafa frowned slightly. “I no think we both fitting. Shower is better, no?”

“As long as you’re naked...” Roger trailed off with a shrug and a smirk, sliding the button free.

They worked together to remove their shirts and trousers, and Roger’s eyes darkened with intent as he tugged at the waistband of Rafa’s tight white boxer briefs to reveal his beautiful, mouth-watering dick, before dragging off his own and gently hustling him into the bathroom. After turning on the shower, Roger gestured to him to get in and quickly followed, immediately closing the distance between them and pressing his hard cock into the cleft of his husband’s perfectly formed arse.

“Fuck, Raf, I’ve been looking forward to this all day...”

He nibbled lightly at the juncture between Rafa’s neck and shoulder and then sucked at the sensitive spot beneath his ear, before reaching for the bottle of complimentary shower gel. Squeezing some into his hands, he began rubbing it into Rafa’s wet skin, working his way down, back and front, saving the best bits for last and eventually sliding his fingers into the dark crevice between his cheeks. Rafa moaned and tipped his head back as Roger teased the rim of his entrance with one fingertip, until it relaxed enough for him to slip the digit inside to the second knuckle, and then he pulled back to add another, whispering hotly in his ear.

“Mmm...so tight, baby...so hot...got to get you all squeaky clean, yeah?” He twisted his fingers and Rafa shivered despite the heat of the water. “And then maybe I’ll dirty you up again...”

“ _Joder_...Roger... _por_ _favor_...”

Roger smirked as he pulled his fingers out, swallowing Rafa’s moan of protest with a tongue-filled kiss and urging him under the spray to rinse off, while he hurriedly washed himself and then turned the shower off. They towelled themselves dry with the hotel’s super-soft Egyptian cotton bath sheets and then drifted back into the bedroom, where he pushed Rafa onto the bed and then climbed on top of him, settling between the spread of his thighs, their mouths and cocks aligning.

He had to fight the urge to forget foreplay and just slide his cock deep inside Rafa’s gorgeous arse - this was their wedding night after all and he wanted to make it memorable for them both, something to keep them warm when they were playing in different tournaments, thousands of miles apart from each other.

A recurring fantasy hovered at the edges of his mind, the desire he had to see Rafa tied up, and at the mercy of his hands and mouth. They were both pretty adventurous when it came to sex, always looking for new ways to tease and turn each other on, but they’d never experimented with restraints, and just the thought of Rafa, who had such a dominant on-court personality, having to submit to him made Roger harder than he could ever remember being.

He curled his hands around Rafa’s muscular arms and slid them down to his wrists, dragging them up above his head and then holding them in place. He searched Rafa’s heavy-lidded gaze and saw the heat flare in his eyes as he caught Roger’s silent question and then wantonly bucked his hips up in response, resulting in both a delicious friction between their cocks and a tighter grip on his wrists.

“Are you sure, baby?” He groaned at Rafa’s breathless nod. “Okay, just stay right there...and don’t move...”

He dipped his head to press a swift kiss to Rafa’s mouth and then climbed off the bed to retrieve his tie from where he’d left it on the chair in the corner of the room. Resuming his position, he looped the strip of silk around the headboard and then around his wrists, securing each makeshift shackle with a knot, tight enough to prevent his escape but not to cut off his circulation, then sat back to survey his handiwork.

The fantasy paled in comparison to the reality. His eyes raked over his husband, naked and bound - he wanted to worship every delectable inch of him, lingering over all the secret places he knew would make him moan. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against the pulse fluttering in Rafa’s neck before licking and sucking a path down to his chest, and scraping his teeth against his right nipple, feeling the Spaniard shudder beneath him and gasp out his name.

“I know, baby...you’re always so sensitive...”

He flicked his tongue out to lap at the taut bud then blew across it lightly, feeling Rafa tremble. It was tempting to stay right where he was, to try and make him come just from this - he’d done it once before and the sight of Rafa’s face just before he’d been tossed over the edge was seared on his memory. But he wanted to be inside him when they both came and there was so much more to explore, and one spot in particular he was desperate to get his tongue on.

It might be strange to think of a man as beautiful, but Rafa really was. Even though age and the physicality of his game had taken its toll on his body, even though his hair was thinning and he had lines around his eyes, Roger would never not think he was beautiful. Beautiful and so damn sexy, especially in his current state of captivity, the muscles in his arms bulging when he arched into Roger’s touch.

His cock was hard and curving up to tap against his stomach, smearing pre-come over his defined abs. It was deliciously thick and uncut and Roger wasted no time in getting his mouth around it. Rafa moaned low and filthy, mumbling in indecipherable Spanish as he slid up and down the shaft, while firmly grasping the base in his callused hand. Drawing back to circle the sensitive tip with his tongue, he swiped it against the underside ridge and dipped it into the slit, then relaxed his throat and took him deeper, while massaging his balls and dipping a thumb down to rub against his opening.

Pulling off, he rose up and pressed his lips against Rafa’s, licking into his mouth so he could taste himself and then with a whispered “turn over for me,” he guided the Spaniard onto his front and then up on his knees, his hands still bound. Leaning forward, he slid his hands up Rafa’s muscular thighs to grip his cheeks and part them to reveal his puckered hole. It was a sight he never got tired of, all pink and flushed and practically begging for him to open it up with his tongue. And Roger wasn’t in the mood to deny either of them - dipping his head, he licked against the knot of Rafa’s entrance and was rewarded with a deliciously hot moan that went straight to his cock.

Rafa was always so beautifully responsive but especially now, arching his hips and whimpering so prettily into the pillow as Roger flicked his tongue up and down, back and forth, and over and around, before pressing it inside where he was scorching hot and the barest hint of soap did nothing to mask his dark, sweet taste.

He was mumbling again and Roger was determined to finally learn his husband’s native language so he could understand all the words that were tripping out of his mouth.

“So good, Roger, _se_ _siente_ _tan_ _bien_... _joder_ _me_ _encanta_ _tu_ _lengua_... _por_ _favor_... _no_ _pares_... _por_ _favor_ _no_ _pares_...”

He retreated for a fraction of a second, but only to ease a finger in alongside his tongue, crooking it for the perfect first assault on Rafa’s sweet spot.

“¡ _Joder_! Roger!”

“Oh, I will, baby...I promise,” Roger assured him, pressing an appeasing kiss to his right cheek before getting up to rifle through his suitcase for the lube then sinking two slick fingers inside him and scissoring them to prepare the way. Rafa immediately pushed back on them, as far as his binding would allow, clenching around them and Roger could practically taste his impatience - he loved it when Rafa got like this, all hot and needy and it only made him want to take his time, to hear him beg for it.

And yet his own control was slipping and he badly needed to feel that sucking heat around his cock. With a final press of his fingers against Rafa’s prostate, he pulled them out and then manhandled Rafa onto his back again, wanting to be able to see his face when he fucked him. His hands shook slightly with need as he lubed himself up and then hooked his arms under the Spaniard’s legs to bring his slick entrance in line with his dick, before pressing forward and watching it disappear into Rafa’s hole.

They both groaned as their bodies finally merged, Rafa immediately using his unrestrained lower body and the grip of his inner muscles to spur him on.

“ _Vamos_ , Roger... _más_ _fuerte_...fuck me harder...”

As hot as a submissive Rafa was, it was equally a turn-on when he challenged him, prompting Roger to reach up and pull the knots loose, releasing him from his bonds.

“Not to your liking, baby?” He withdrew and sliding an arm under Rafa, he turned them both over so the Spaniard was now on top. “Go ahead...take what you want...”

Rafa wasted no time in seizing the opportunity, positioning Roger’s cock at his entrance and sliding down on it. It was a sight to be beheld, his gorgeous husband quickly settling into a sinful rhythm and leaning back slightly to guarantee contact with his prostate on the downward stroke. Roger bit his lip when he saw Rafa’s balls tightening and pre-come beading at his slit, indicating he was close.

“Mmm...look at you...so fucking beautiful sitting on my cock...”

He knew how much it turned Rafa on when he talked during sex, especially when they were both approaching orgasm. Roger spotted his hand creeping towards his own cock and smacked it away.

“No hands...just my cock...fuck, Raf, you feel so good...going to fill you up...”

“ _Sí_ , _sí_ , _joder_...” Rafa was begging, breathless and trembling and Roger could feel the pressure building behind his own balls. He dug his heels into the mattress, allowing him to thrust up into Rafa at the same time that he sank down and that was it, they were coming together, the fucking holy grail of sex - Rafa’s dick twitching uncontrollably as he decorated Roger’s torso with his release, while his arse milked his cock of all he had to give.

He collapsed on Roger, finding his mouth and panting against it as aftershocks raced through them both. Grabbing tissues from the box on the nightstand, Roger cleaned himself up, with Rafa easing off his softening cock and following suit, then flopping down next to him.

Roger chuckled softly. “We need another shower...”

“Mmm, _sí_...in morning...”

He dragged the covers up over them and slipped an arm around the Spaniard’s shoulders to pull him closer, Rafa promptly tucking his head into the curve between his neck and shoulder. Roger took each of his hands in turn, pressing his lips against his slightly reddened wrists.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Rafa nuzzled into him like a kitten, his eyes already half-closed. “No...I love it.”

It had been a wonderful day, but long and tiring and they both needed sleep before heading off on their honeymoon tomorrow - a week spent on Beethoven, sailing around the islands between Mallorca and the Spanish mainland, and hanging out with Rafa’s ‘fishes’, before flying across the Atlantic for the two warm-up hard court tournaments ahead of New York. Following the pattern of last year, Rafa would be playing the Canadian Open in Montreal, while Roger had signed up for Cincinnati, although they would each be attending both events to support the other - husbands and practice partners rolled into one.

He pressed a kiss to Rafa’s forehead. “ _Te_ _amo_ , baby,” he whispered softly.

Rafa stifled a yawn against his shoulder. “ _Yo_ _también_ _te_ _amo_... _mi_ Roger...”

Roger closed his eyes, the warmth of Rafa in his arms relaxing him almost to the point of drifting off.

He’d been fortunate to have led a pretty charmed life - he’d enjoyed a stellar career racking up more trophies than he knew what to do with, he had four beautiful children, and he was blessed to have had two great loves.

Rafa might not have been his first love, but he was his soulmate - and Roger knew with every fibre of his being that he would be his last.


End file.
